


A Vision in White

by MsCFH



Series: Corporate AU [7]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2019-09-21
Packaged: 2020-10-25 05:53:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20719175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsCFH/pseuds/MsCFH
Summary: Seeing the woman you love wearing a wedding dress should be the happiest moment of your life.





	A Vision in White

**Author's Note:**

> Bear with me here, guys. This story is something that has been in my head for a while, and I finally had the time to write it.   
This belongs in the realm of the Corporate AU, but a good way down the line.   
Eventually, I hope to also write the story leading up to this.   
Fingers crossed this works with all the immense amount of back-story I have built up in my mind here.

She looked beautiful.

All that Sansa had ever imagined; the dress she wore was everything.

Lace wrapped around her torso, like it was made just for her (which it probably was) — long sleeves out of the same material enclosed her arms.

It was plain white. Not ivory, eggshell, but simple, starked white; resembled the image of looking down on the clouds from a plane.

The A-line skirt bordered on almost too simplistic only became extraordinary through the tail of small silk roses that flowed down from her hips like a waterfall.

For Sansa, it came as a bit of a surprise that she did not wear her hair open. The updo was modest but elegant. Golden-brown curls swept up into a loose classic bun, white roses circled it on one side.

It would have been a rather conservative look, something that you expected at a royal wedding, had it not been for the plunging neckline at her back, that ended just above her hips, showing off softly tanned skin spanning over lean muscles.

She was a vision, and Sansa did not hesitate to tell her that.

"You look beautiful."

Soft eyes darted up, meeting Sansa's through the floor-length mirror. The hint of a smile attempted to curl at the corners of her lips, but the solemnity prevailed.

"You shouldn't be here."

Ignoring the dismissiveness of the words, Sansa took a step forward.

"Because it is bad luck to see the bride before the wedding?"

It was a poor attempt of a joke, and through the mirror, Sansa saw the pained expression that graced Margaery's face, that matched the own tightness she felt in her chest.

"What are you doing here?"

Sansa's lips opened and closed; opened again but no sound came out.

Getting the courage to come here, had taken forever, and now that she stood here, before the love of her life, the words still refused to come.

That was the thing with grand romantic gestures. They only appeared simple in your mind.

Crashing a wedding was theoretically romantic, certainly was the way movies made it appear. Then one did not see the work poured into the occasion beforehand, ignored the guests lining up outside, the effort that the bride had put into looking drop-dead-gorgeous. 

Nevertheless, once you stood in front of your wedding-dress-clad ex-girlfriend, there were not exactly a lot of ways to go.

Turning around with best wishes seemed -if possible- even worse than what she'd come here for.

When the words still wouldn't come, Sansa reached into the back pocket of her black jeans and pulled out an envelope, that appeared slightly wrinkled. 

(From being held too tightly. From pulling the sheet it contained out and shoving it back in countless times.) 

When Sansa held it up for her to see, her heart sunk at the look that appeared in Margaery's eyes, that particular tortured quality, when she recognized it.

There was no going back now.

Margaery had sent the letter, and Sansa had read it; was here because of the words in it.

_ I want to start over. That is why I am with her… but, despite my best efforts, I cannot shake it - she's not you. _

Sansa swallowed, raised her head, forced herself to look Margaery straight in the eye. "Did you mean this?"

It only took seconds for Margaery to match her stance, her chin raised and a distance clouded over her eyes. "I wrote that weeks ago."

"That does not answer my question."

With those words, Sansa dared a tentative step towards her, a lump forming in her stomach when Margaery's eyes hardened.

"You're too late," she told her, looking at her for another heartbeat and then twisting back around. As she faced her image in the mirror, she brushed a strand of hair in order that was never array in the first place.

The words rang in Sansa's ears like a tinnitus caused by too loud music.

_ Too late. _

She bit her lip, desperately recalled some of the courage the words of the letter had stirred within her.

"You are not married yet."

"So what?" Margaery huffed, her eyes were trained onto her reflection and then darted to her hands, twisting the engagement ring on her left hand quietly. "Does that make a difference?"

Sansa watched the gesture, painfully reminded of an occurrence a couple of weeks ago when she'd run into Margaery and the dark-haired beauty holding her hand, the sizeable ring already on her finger.

More than a minute passed in silence.

"Even now you can't say it, can you?"

She saw the shift appear in Margaery's face; the same look she'd had the day she'd moved her things out of their place. The disappointment.

When Margaery turned around to face her and Sansa stood there for a moment like a deer in the headlight; something she could only endure for a couple of seconds.

Back then, it had been Sansa's pride stopping her from begging her to stay as she should have.

Had she, would this be their wedding day? It was hard not to wonder.

Maybe it took just that. Stakes impossibly high as they were now. 

All in. 

All on one card. 

Les jeux sont faits.

Margaery was standing there in a wedding dress, looking beyond beautiful, ready to marry someone else. Was that not enough to make her forget her pride at last?

It took three steps to stand in front of her; the anxiety of the moment, probably taking another good five years of her life.

When she reached out for Margaery's hands, she resisted for a flash, tried to pull away, but it was only half-hearted, and then their hands interlaced and she held on, tightly; a small portion of hope swimming in batted eyes, that looked at Sansa yet with a sense of defiance.

Sansa felt the tightness and warmth of her hold, along with the cold metal of her engagement ring.

"I love you," Sansa breathed out, the words rushed and with desperate urge, as if she could choke on them; she caught herself and forced herself to slow down, to give each word the emphasis and importance it deserved and required. "This last year was the worst of my life. Not stopping you that night, not going after you; not begging you take me back every day since was the biggest mistake of my life. I need you."

Even through Margaery's lowered eyes, she could see the tears in them as her gaze trained to their joined hands.

"I was a fool ever to let you go. Please don't marry her." Her voice was merely a whisper, Sansa was sure that the sentence would have concluded in a sob if she'd spoken any louder. She was painfully aware that she was about one _ You are my reason for living _ away from sounding like a dime-novel, and any other occasion it would have bothered her, would have been beneath her.

Now she did not give a damn. She had too much to lose to still care about that.

"Please, Marge."

When Margaery met her eyes again, at last, Sansa thought she could already read the answer in them.

_ Too late.  _

_ Too little, too late.  _

_ I cannot do this. _

Simply because she did not think she would survive to hear the words, she cupped Margaery's face in her hands, felt soft cheeks that were heated despite their paleness beneath her palms, and she leaned in, pressing a soft kiss against her lips.

Already prepared for a slap, for hands pushing her away, Sansa was caught by surprise when instead of that Margaery deepened the kiss.

The initial relief, the blissful feeling did not last long, disappeared when it became evident that the tenderness the moment required was absent.

Instead, Margaery kissed her back with a wanton that Sansa was not at all prepared for. A tongue licked into her mouth, meeting her own, hands clawed at her neck, nails dug into her skin, teeth sunk into her bottom lip.

She was furious.

It did not last longer than a couple of seconds, then Margaery tore away, heavily breathing and pushed at her shoulders harshly; took a step back when she did not manage to get her far enough out of her space.

"I've waited over a year for you to say that," she exclaimed, angrily.

"I know it's not fair."

Sansa's attempt to reach out for her she angrily pushed away.

"Hell no, it's not fair!" Margaery shook her head erratically. "You are like a child, Sansa. A child who wants what it can't have. You had 13 months, and yet you chose my wedding day to tell me this. I wrote that  _ stupid  _ letter over two months ago, and you wait until now to come here?"

"I didn't read it until this morning."

That silenced her, took all wind out of her sails.

Sansa gave a breathy chuckle and tilted her head to the ceiling to stop tears from rolling down her cheeks. "I received that letter  _ a week _ after you got engaged. I assumed it was an explanation, a farewell... I don't know - not  _ this _ !"

Something in Margaery's posture, in her expression, melted then and Sansa melted along with it.

"Tell me things have changed, tell me you don't want me anymore, and I am out the door." She took a step forward. "Tell me to go."

Fingers twisted tightly into the material of her the white dress; Sansa knew her long and well enough to read the look on her face. She was scared; frightened to her core.

It was only left to determine if she was scared that she would stay or go.

She approached her like one would approach a maimed animal, taking half steps forward, watching for her every move and reaction. It took a good minute before she was in front of her again, her hands slowly rising to her face and tilting it up gently to look her in the eye. 

"Can I kiss you, Margaery?"

She looked at her just like the first time she had when Sansa has asked her that question; only the longing came a bit slower than it had that night, the clarity was there unchanged.

Fingers twisted around Sansa's wrists and just for an instant, Sansa thought she'd pull away, tell her that it really was too late.

"Please?" Her tone was pleading.

Sansa was not very good at showing vulnerability. She never begged for anything. She worked for what she wanted, earned it, did not ask or press for it. Even to the woman she loved. 

Not until now that was. 

She felt nauseous and yet knew it would be worth it. Likewise, if she walked out of here alone today, the mere chance of Margaery taking her back made it worth it.

This time Margaery leaned in, broke off her trail of thoughts before she could conclude it. Soft lips were firmly back on hers, and for the first few seconds of the kiss, Sansa had to keep her eyes open, to see Margaery's face so close to hers to make sure she wasn't dreaming or imagining things.

The moment she did close her eyes though, the moment she fully sunk into the kiss, it was like they had never stopped, like there wasn't over a year between the last time they had done this, the last time they had touched.

They stumbled backwards in their kisses, her hands moving securely around Margaery's waistline; only stopping when the back of Margaery's thighs came in contact with the vanity table.

Halfway sitting, halfway leaning Margaery tightened her hold, pulled her face down closer to her. A leg emerged from a heap of skirts and layers, wrapping around Sansa's thigh, pulling her closer.

It all went so fast, Sansa had barely a chance to gather what was happening. 

In an attempt to get some space between them Sansa tilted her head back, only to have hot lips land on the line of her jaw, kissing, sucking and licking at every inch of skin they could reach; made it impossible for her to collect herself like she needed to.

The thing was… Sansa had not come here with the intention for this. Her mind had not worked further than the faint chance of a possibility of Margaery hearing her out.

And now, as things were progressing as they were, the petty, selfish beast of possessiveness reared its ugly head.

Margaery was in her arms; she was kissing her; the thought of how close she'd come to missing out on this for the rest of her life threatened to suffocate her.

Sansa could not have stopped her hands from bunching up the dress - the dress Margaery' had picked out and put on with another woman in mind - if she'd wanted to.

Margaery moaned into her mouth as her nails drew over the inside of her thighs, brushed along the edge of lacy stockings that ended mid-thigh and explored the bare flesh, the soft skin.

It was not her right to be jealous, Sansa understood that and yet her kisses turned a tad rougher with the lace (and the idea of its original purpose) between her fingertips.

She pushed back, hooked a hand beneath Margaery's knee until she was sitting on the glass surface of the vanity, one arm slung around Sansa's neck, the other to balance herself, braced behind her.

They broke apart for a moment, and both of them breathed heavily looking at each other.

Margaery's appearance was the most beautiful, most erotic thing Sansa had ever seen.

Not only was her hair was rumbled, lipstick smeared everywhere, lips swollen, the skirt of her form-fitting dress hiked up high - she smiled, sincerely and happily smiled.

Smiled at her with a light in her eyes that Sansa felt she had not seen in months, perhaps years.

_ The sun in your eyes, heaven in your arms. _

A verse of a poem that never felt truer.

She'd never let her go again, that Sansa swore to herself in that instant. And if the world went up in flames around them, she'd never let her go. To hell with all the doubts and concerns.

When Sansa leaned back in to kiss her, it held a lot more purpose. Her kisses turned slower, more aimed, contained everything she knew Margaery loved and needed.

Her fingers followed the same line they had moments ago, brushed back and forth around the naked area where her stockings ended and the apex of her thigh. Once they reached the silk material of her underwear, Sansa felt a hitch of breath against her lips.

Only at that she dragged their lips apart, dipped her head forward so that her forehead rested against Margaery's, withdrew her hand and placed it firmly on top of her thigh.

She didn't want to stop, hardly thought she was truly able to, and yet, because it was so much after so long, she did.

"I can stop," she offered breathlessly.

Sharp fingernails dug into the back of her neck and pulled their lips back together.

"I don't think you can." The words were hoarse, spoken against her lips, daunting, teasing; and held more affection than she could ever imagine. 

Sansa smiled into the kiss, and with it, her hand slipped between them and past the material of panties, between folds that were beyond ready for her.

Margaery panted against her lips when fingers came in contact with her clit. Sansa circled it once, twice, and then she pushed lower, pressed two fingers into her. In the moment her fingers reached knuckle deep, encompassed by her slick warm heat, they both moaned.

She allowed herself a moment to be captured by the feeling she feared to have lost forever.

Margaery's soft body against hers, her hot breath on her skin. Hands that held onto her as if her life depended on it. They were so close.

A small sign of impatient wanton materialized itself from Margaery, and she rocked her hips forward, served as the necessary reminder that managed to drew Sansa from her trance.

She met Margaery's lips in a searing kiss in the same moment she pulled her fingers out of her and drove them back into her. The heel of her hand hit her clit in just the right angle, letting Margaery gasp into their kiss.

The rhythm she picked up bordered on ruthless, and it wasn't long until either of them couldn't concentrate on kissing anymore.

Margaery had both arms wound around Sansa's neck, holding on for her dear life, her head on her shoulder, twisting and nuzzling against her helplessly, muffling moans against the material of her blouse.

It took Sansa only a couple of powerful thrusts, fingers curling as she did so, her thumb pressing against her clit, and Margaery tensed in her arms, her head tilted back, and her lips opened in a silent moan, and then she collapsed right against her.

Unable to contain her smile, Sansa held her as her breath normalized, drew fingers gently over the revealed skin of her back while Margaery still clawed onto her as if she was afraid she'd disappear. Understanding the feeling Sansa buried her face in her hair, taking in the scent she had missed so much, all too aware of how quickly it could be gone.

"I'm sorry," Sansa whispered.

It took another moment for Margaery to gather the strength to pull back, to look at her. Was glad not to find any outright regret in her eyes, mere confusion.

"That it took me so long," Sansa elaborated. "It shouldn't have been like this. Not on your wedding day."

The thrill of it all, of having Margaery back, of  _ having her _ in her white dress, of taking her moments before she was to step in front of the altar, cleared all too quickly from her mind.

She should have been happy, she was happy, but she'd do anything not to have Margaery faced with such a mess.

"Darling," Margaery's voice was still a bit hoarse, her eyebrows drawn up as she looked at her through blown pupils. "You misunderstood me before."

Sansa blinked, refused to allow the panic to take hold of her; if only for the way Margaery still held onto her.

"When I said you were too late... I called the wedding off a good thirty minutes ago."

Sansa understood everything and nothing and a warm hand covered her cheek, and equal warm eyes looked at her as if she was adorably slow, then Margaery leaned her cheek against her shoulder, still too pleasantly exhausted to keep herself upright.

"For a year, I tried everything to rip you from my heart. I would have gone so far to marry someone else to achieve that."

It should not have stung, but it did.

"What changed?" Sansa was afraid of the answer.

With a sigh, Margaery came to a proper stand in front of her. Because she was in heels and Sansa in flats, they were just about at the same height, and she could look her straight in the eye.

She placed both arms around her shoulders, crossed them behind her neck.

"Nothing changed," she went on. "That was the problem. I wore another woman's ring on my finger, planned a wedding, and I still loved you. That's why I wrote the letter."

"I swear I didn't-"

Margaery silenced her with a peck.

"It doesn't matter," she went on. "Writing that letter was a cop-out. Had I wanted her, loved her enough, I would never have written it in the first place."

Sansa drew a hand through tousled hair. "And what now?"

"I don't know," Margaery admitted, while a smile tugged on her lips and she leaned into Sansa's touch. "But I am hoping we can find out together."

**Author's Note:**

> As always thank you for reading!   
I would love to hear what you think!


End file.
